Armour is a Mandalorians Best Friends
by Bald as Malak
Summary: Canderous' scouts out the terrain of members of the two Ebon Hawk crews.


**ARMOUR IS A MANDALORIAN'S BEST FRIEND**

**Canderous. The _Ebon Hawk_. Korriban, two weeks before the _Star Forge _is destroyed**

The first time she enters the room, I'm working on my armour, trying to find a way to boost the power to its shields. Normally, I don't bother with her, but this time… this time there's a restless energy to her that licks at my senses, the barest scent of Kin Sha, blood about to be spilt, that draws my attention from my task.

For the first time, she feels… _dangerous_.

It's not very strong, only just enough to make me take notice. It reminds me of living with the clan, when a new warrior walks through the camp, his hands still wet with the blood of his first kill. Instinctively, I react, putting my hand on my sword and inclining my head into just the barest of nods.

Maybe it's because Bastila's a woman, or because she's a Jedi. Whatever the reason, I'm not surprised that she doesn't notice the acknowledgement of her first step towards Kin Lit, the death of fear. Instead, she walks right by me, like a young maalraas pup pacing its cage.

Then I notice that she's biting her lip, and I wonder if my senses are mistaken, confusing the scent of the small blood from the worried wound for something more.

But she's gone before I can figure it out. _No matter._ _Our next battle will reveal the answer_.

The next time she enters the room, I'm just about to try on the modified armour. The hint of blood is still there, but she's still chewing on that plump lip of hers. Damn, it's a fine lip attached to a fine chassis, fit for the taking after a glorious kill. But she's off limits, claimed by Lyson.

_How can two who have killed so many still acts like unblooded at their first Hlendon? The sooner Lyson takes her the better…_

I chuckle a little when I remember the first woman I took during that ancient ceremony. A beautiful, fierce Cathar with bluish fur and sharp nails. I still carry the scars. Too bad Juhani is such a Jedi priss.

Perhaps Bastila thinks I'm smiling at her, because she raises her eyebrow, trying to look so haughty and distant. But she's fooling herself if she thinks I can't see the fear.

She told Lyson she couldn't go with him to the Sith outpost, and she was right. _But damn, she should have sent him off in style!_

"What are you doing," Bastila asks, the question so grudgingly asked that I have to stop from laughing. I'm not even sure why I bother, really. Well, maybe I do. I'm just not used to sitting on the side while others do battle. It makes me feel old. So conversation about my armour seems a damned sight better than worrying over that well-chewed bone.

_Maybe it's time for Jahtu._ But I'm not ready to put a hole in my head and join those who wait upon the Armed God. Not yet anyway. I'm still hoping someone will do it for me.

I explain to her the modifications I've made to the armour. I'm quite proud of them, for they took a long time to figure out and the tests so far show that the results will be impressive. Her eyes glaze over about half the way through, but that's alright. A warrior offers the lesson, but it's up to the pups to listen. The next engagement usually tells whether they made the right decision.

When I'm finished, she gives me the barest of nods and then walks off. As I always do, I admire the play of her butt against that ridiculously tight one-piece she wears. I wonder again if she thinks it hides the fact that she is a Jedi, or if it just distracts people enough that they never bother to think about it. It would never work with a real warrior, of course, but there are few of us left in this galaxy anymore.

An hour later, I'm making the last adjustment to the armour. I've just tested it using my blaster on its lowest setting and it's done quite well, but I've seen some fluctuations in the shield that just aren't quite right. Of course, the instruments seem to say that everything's fine, but there are times when a warrior just knows to trust his gut. This is one of those.

"Are you still working on that armour?" her voice says behind me. _Damn, it's so easy to forget how arousing that voice of hers is, until you hear it without the pursed lips and pinched brow. _

"Just finishing some final adjustments, but…" and then I give the bolt holding the projector to the armour a last twist, "I'm all finished now. Want to give her a try."

"I don't think that tin trap will fit on me, thank you," she says, her voice haughty and distant.

"Look sister, you don't have to put it on, I just want you to help me give it a trial run with that light stick of yours."

As I speak, I lift off my sweat-soaked undershirt before putting on the armour. When Bastila sees the shirt come off, she turns around with a huff.

"Why can't you just put it on the floor and I'll hit it a couple of times?" she asks.

"Because things change when you move around! Why, do you Jedi practice on standing dummies only?" When Bastila doesn't answer, I continue. "Angles of attack, the places you will likely hit, and a lot more. The only way to test the modifications is through something as close to a battle as we can get."

It doesn't take long to put the armour on; I practice taking my armour on and off at least ten times a day so that I'm prepared for any surprise attack. Grabbing my vibrosword, I tap Bastila on her shoulder, but not before I take one last, long look at that voluptuous backside. She may be a shooting range that's off limits, but that doesn't stop me from wanting.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," she says when she turns around, her eyes darting to my vibrosword.

"What, you got something better to do. A sweater to knit for Lyson or some booties for Mission? Come on, what are you worried about, sister? I won't put you on your back, I promise. And if you're worried about slicing something off, well if I can't keep it on, I don't deserve it."

"But is it _necessary_?"

"Yes." _Are all Jedi this dense?_ Every time I attack, or defend, angles change, the force of impact changes, the length and breadth of contact changes, and so on. Do you really want the full explanation, princess?"

"No, that will do. What are the rules?"

"Rules? I'm going to try to whack you with my big stick here and you do the same. We both pull our blows a bit to be nice and then we'll have enough energy, and if we're lucky, pieces for a few rounds. So let's start blabbing and start swinging."

"Fine!" Finally, there's the fire I saw a hint of before. She lights her blade and launches herself at me with a fierce swing.

I move to block her swing, but something warns me at the last moment. It's a feint and I quickly twist my blade to capture the real attack that follows. After that, the strikes follow quickly and damned if she doesn't break through a couple of times. The armour holds though, enough that I'm satisfied with the modifications I made.

Which means that it's my turn.

She comes in for another set of attacks, but this time I smack her with my left fist. I follow through with a couple more attacks. Two of those get through, leaving her with bruises on her left hip and chest that must sting a little.

"Had enou—" I say, ready to break it up, but she counterattacks. Her eyes are full of fury, she's really getting into this and Sith's nuts if she isn't backing me up again.

_Well, two can play at that, princess._

The next half hour is much more fun than any practice session I've had in a long time. Bastila's got bruises on her hips, chests and thighs and I've got a couple of nice tears in my armour that will keep my busy for the next couple of days. Not to mention a couple of new scars to impress the ladies with.

_All in all, a good day but now how do I get her to stop?_ Because we're both getting a bit tired and sloppy and the next blow might be a bit more serious.

"Look, princess. This has been the best day I've had since Revan nearly wiped us out on Malachor, but we need to save our energy for bigger fry than each other."

Bastila stops. She's breathing really heavy, her face and chest are covered in sweat, which does some really nice things for the view. Her eyes, though, they're the best thing I've had to look upon for a long while. They look really nice with all the fire in them. I bet she's thinking about carving herself up some Mandalorian meat.

_Damn, Lyson better sink his weapon into her soon or to hell with ally shit!_

Some of the flame leaves Bastila's eyes as we face off against each other, just a little. But it's enough I guess, because her stance relaxes and she thumbs her lightsabre off.

Her eyes, still more than a little wild seem to finally see the smoking rents in my armour. Her eyes come back to mine as she walks over and I'm thinking to step away. There's no way I'm going to let her heal what one day are going to be some nice scars to commemorate this fine workout we've had.

Maybe she reads my mind, because all of a sudden she blurs, closing the distance between us faster than I can react.

And that's okay, because her hands aren't ruining my scars, they're pulling my mouth into a kiss that as hungry and violent as our fight was.

Well, I know this is trouble, probably far more than it's worth, but that's the kind of trouble a Mandalorian likes, so I engage the enemy for all it's worth. I conquer a few hills as the sound of our battle grows heavier in my ears, and my assault howitzer is all charged up for the final assault when suddenly I'm flying through the air, landing on my back among the tool boxes, scattering them all about.

"Damn you," Bastila shouts, but then she looks wildly from side to side before she continues more quietly. "What did you do to me you… you…" Her hair is undone and splayed all about. Her eyes still flare with fire, and her robes, wet with her sweat and mine, reveal two fine, pointy daggers that are worth burying your heart on. And, there's more to see too, but then she waves her hand and I'm frozen on the spot.

She walks over, and starts saying stuff to me like "I'll forget all about this" and "we just trained for a while before going to bed," all the time waving her hand in front of my face. Now, I guess this confirms that she didn't fight in the war with us before she started fighting Revan's invasion. Because if she had, she would know that we Mandalorians don't have the soft minds that other sentients have.

But a warrior has got to know when he's gained as much of the enemy's territory as he can, and this is one of the times, so I let my eyes go blank for a while, until she's satisfied and walks away.

_Still, that's a damn shame. And now I've got to use that fresher in the medbay to cool myself down. Heh, that should make that dainty-nosed Juhani happy._

Chuckling to myself, I grab my towel and head off.

&.

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**Canderous. The _Ebon Hawk_. Korriban, two weeks before Malachor V is destroyed**

One of the problems with being the Mandalore is that I can never take my damned helmet off.

Normally, keeping the helmet on doesn't bother me. It's the warrior's way. But whoever designed the Mandalore's helmet didn't take into consideration that the damned leader of our tribe would have to repair his own damned armour.

Unfortunately, it's the tradition that a Mandalore never shows his face, and I've been working so hard to keep it alive I just can't give it up now. Not even when there is no one here who would understand, or tell.

_Hell, Canderous, you're getting old and sentimental. Sith's nuts, who would have thought I would be back on this old tin bucket on some other adventure to save the damned Republic?_

Still, with a little extra light and a lot of moving the armour around so that I can see, I think I've finally made the adjustments this armour needs. It's a fine suit, passed on from Mandalore to Mandalore, with a little break for five years in Revan's trophy case before he gave it to me.

_Damn, who would have thought Lyson would be Revan. I still can't believe it, even after all these years. I still wonder if that "memory loss" of his was real, or just some elaborate ploy._

Working on my armour in the same room I occupied the first time around, and thinking about Revan makes me think about that one practice session with Bastila. She had surprised me that day, getting my weapons all charged up that way. It was an encounter that I still let tickle my mind from time to time. I still wonder what would have happened if I hadn't let our engagement drop. Would that have meant that it would have been me with her and Revan when they took on Malak on the Leviathan? Because if I had been there, there's no way Malak would have taken the Jedi princess, and then maybe she, and then Revan wouldn't have fallen.

Not that this falling thing really mattered to me. Sith or Jedi, I would rather turn my back on a Peraxian sand snake then a lightsabre wielding fanatic. But once they became Sith, Revan went dashing off on some fool quest. My side still aches from where he buried his lightsabre.

As for Bastila she disappeared, which meant that her fine fortress was as empty and as worthless as a blaster without ammunition.

"What are you doing?" The voice is hesitant, somehow shy and yet aggressive, pushing for a fight. _From one princess to another._

No one had ever told me that the Gods of War had a sense of humour, but the Echani who meets my gaze as I turn around is just made for a Mandalorian to sheath his vibrosword in. Her muscles are firm, her eyes evaluate everything like a fight, and she keeps her weight over the balls of her feet, just like I was trained to do when I was two years old. She's got danger all packed up in a terrain that's just aching for a little one-on-one skirmish: with a little hand-on-hand combat followed by some shooting practice.

Too bad she's even prissier that Bastila ever was.

"What does it look like I'm doing, princ… Echani?"

"I don't understand why you Mandalorians insist on using armour. You are a warrior people and yet you separate yourselves from the battle with this thick metal protection. Where's the honour?"

Now, those are the most words I've heard out of the Last Handmaiden since I joined the crew on Dxun. Looking at her eyes, I can tell see that they are all red and a bit wet. And I can guess what the cause is.

I wish my elders had told me about this hero worship stuff when I was young. Not that I've minded the spoils of the past wars, but there's seems to be something about this "saving the world" crap that provides nice collateral consequences like a Bastila or a "Last Handmaiden."

What's even worse is that these heroes just leave the booty behind when they go adventuring. Hell, at least Revan had a reason, because of all the Sith that were in the Korriban Academy last time. But this time, it's all empty. Why can't the rest of us go too, rather than rotting our behinds on this damned ship?

So instead of being out there, knocking some heads or at least getting some fresh air, I've got to stay inside with this damned helmet, a set of armour that doesn't really need any work and this treasure trove for which I don't have the key.

_Damn, I need a fight!_

"You want to know why I wear armour? Because without this armour I wouldn't have been able to fight half the battles I was in. The moon of Strassus, where the vapours can eat you alive without armour? I fought there when I was twenty-two and killed a dozen Strassi. You would have died there in five seconds without laying a hand on your enemy without armour.

"And there were the remains of the _Lakje_, the first ship I served on. Breached and boarded by Ullidrian pirates. No atmosphere, no gravity, what honour would you have found there dying with your hands on your neck before your body exploded, huh? Do I need to go on, sister?"

"You make some good points, from your perspective. But we Echani defend where you attack, and so the choosing of the battleground is often ours."

"But what will you do if this little raiding adventure requires us to go to some place where that pretty little skin of your doesn't do the job? Will you run, with your tail between your legs or will you suit up so you can meet your foes?"

"Again, I find that your words have merit. I must think about this." And then without another word, she walks off. _Echani! I've known space cruiser durasteel beams that are less stiff that these sorry excuses for warriors! Still, though her thinking is rigid, watching her leave is making my bean stiffen up too._

Another three hours pass after that. I'm just polishing up my armour now, something I never thought I would worry about when I was young. But I'm the symbol of my people now, so this old dog is learning some new tricks.

_But next time I go adventuring, I'm bringing myself some junior ensigns who can do all this shit!_

I see the Last Handmaiden in the shine of my armour, and so I turn around to see what she wants. To my surprise, she's got a suit of armour in her hands.

"Show me how to put this on," she says, nodding at the extra set of Republic armour we keep in the cargo bay.

"Okay," I say. _This should be interesting, and there's nothing like a little scouting mission._ "The first thing you have to do is take off that damned robe."

"Why," she says, her voice suddenly full of suspicion.

Now, her terrain's got as many hills and deep bunkers as Bastila's did, and maybe even a few more, but it's the face I really like. Full of hard lines, ice cold steel in the eyes, and a mouth that looks ready to scream in battle. But I'm not expecting her to go all Bastila on me.

"Look, I know you've got the Exile on your radar screen and that you've plotting your attack pattern, so let's just get your damned armour on. Then maybe you can hold your own in one of those "practice sessions" you two keep closing the cargo bay door for.

The Last Handmaiden's face gets all red for a moment, like the first spray of blood on an icy battlefield, and I'm thinking that she's going to walk away. But then she thrusts the armour into my hands, and pulls off her robes as efficient as I put my armour on and off.

_You really have been practicing a lot with Ton_, I chuckle to myself. Though I'm old enough now to admit that I'm a bit envious of the battles he gets to choose.

We start by spending an hour going over how to put her armour on and off. This exercise brings out the best side of her, and I don't mean the constant attack angles I see into her undergarments. Instead, it's the warrior within her, the one that, once she's committed, wants to know everything about wearing and fighting in armour.

The next hour has me taking off my armour so that she can compare the two sets: their circuitry, the strength of the material, the ways that each set constrains some movements and allows others.

Then we move on to fighting with armour. The Last Handmaiden is very awkward at first, because knowing in your mind how armour affects movement is not the same as experiencing it first hand. We spend several hours going over all sorts of basic movements and I realize after a little while that I'm having fun.

I've never had someone to teach, never anyone who cared about this stuff as much as I did. I'm sure there are some in my new clan, but now that I'm Mandalore, I'm not supposed to train others.

So, all this is new to me and I find myself wishing that I hadn't become Mandalore, that I had just taken a position of trainer instead.

_Bah, useless, empty wishing! Sith's nuts, the next thing you know, I'll be philosophizing like some damn Jedi or sobbing into my ale like Carth._

"It's not enough," the Last Handmaiden says finally. "We have to fight or I'll never get a feel for this."

I look at the chronometer on the nearby wall. We've been at this for almost five hours and I'm starting to feel my age. Even my eyes aren't feeling one hundred percent. The last time they looked down her chest was at least an hour ago.

_But she's enthusiastic and I'm still finding this surprisingly enjoyable, so…_ "Why not."

Well, again we have to start off slow, because she's right. Practice can never really replace fighting when it comes to fighting in armour. So it's back and forth, keeping to basic moves until I knock her down. Then back up again and repeat.

But quickly, more quickly than I've ever seen before, she's advancing, trying more and more difficult moves until I'm the one who's on my back and she's standing over me with her sword to my neck.

I don't know what's more uncomfortable, the sorry plight of being defeated by some inexperienced novice or my second sword which is trying to join the fight.

I push her blade aside, and push myself up to my feet. "One last time," I growl, "and this time no holds barred."

"I agree."

Well, it's a damned fine fight. Her attacks are fast, smart, just the right mix of feints and real strikes, her blocks smooth and her footwork near impeccable. And I'm in damn fine form too, better than I've been in three or four years.

But age will tell in the end, no matter how high the motivation. She's backing me up now, and though I'm blocking each strike, my sword is getting heavier and heavier with each strike. We're getting closer to the wall, and once I'm there, I won't have anywhere else to go. So I try an old trick, something learned in battle not in classroom. When she makes her next strike, I let it hit me, but with my armour angled so that it slips harmlessly by. And now I'm inside her guard. I should strike her with the hilt of my sword, but I'm feeling a little cocky having turned the tide. So with a big "Hah," I pick her up and spin her around.

And then I see stars.

When I wake up, I'm lying on the ground and the Last Handmaiden's face is just above mine, her face concerned as she looks into my eyes. After a moment, she smiles. "No concussion."

My head is throbbing, like it's just been pounded by a large Gamorrean hammer, and she's got a deep red bruise on her forehead, likely where her helmet drove into her skull.

"Head butt?" I ask.

She nods, but then I realize that the way I'm seeing her is different than before. It's not the splash of red blood on her forehead or the fierce smile on her lips. It's something else, it's…

"Where's my damned helmet!"

"I always thought you would be this ugly, scowling warrior with red eyes and lots of scars," she says, leaning more of her weight on me so that I can't get up. "And I was right, except that you actually look pretty good." And then she kisses me.

Well, I think we set a record in how fast we dispose of our armour on the way to the cargo bay, and then it's the thrust and parry of a skirmish that takes me through silken plains, steep hills, and deep, slippery bunkers until the next morning.

Finally, I surrender the field, my ammunition supply long depleted and my other weapons too tired to lift. She lies on top of me, consoling me on my defeat by running her hands through the fine forest on my chest.

I enjoy the moment for a long time, but then I realize that I'm about to fall asleep, so I ask the question that's on my mind. "Is this the beginning of a long campaign or just a skirmish? And what about—"

"Don't you know when you've won the war?" she says smiling down at me. I really like what I see, the smile not taking away any of the sharp lines or hard eyes in front of me.

"Echani, a Mandalorian never wins a war. He just keeps fighting until he can't find any more enemies or he dies. Now what about the Exile?"

"Well, you can sleep with him if you want to, but I would prefer it if you saved your crusade and armoury for me."

"Damn it, woman! Do I have to worry about our hero trying to kill me? I don't want to lose to the Sith Lords just because the Exile splits himself on my blade!"

"Don't worry. If there ever comes a time when he can defeat me in battle, then we'll talk about it. Until then, let's see about deploying your reserves, shall we?"

"Fine, but afterwards, you need to get my damned helmet!"

Whatever response she would have made was lost as my fingers flanked her defences.


End file.
